


High Tide

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:46:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel remembers his lover. They connect the dots between Ar-Pharazon and the Silmaril that was lost. </p><p>Maglor remembers that his brother had been fond of men in armor. It is very relevant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Tide

Glorfindel nodded towards the scroll they had all perused in turn. 

“How did you know?” Mithrandir was the first to speak.

Glorfindel sighed and replied, “Instinct.”

Erestor’s assessing gaze directed at him seemed to believe that was not all. Glorfindel shifted his gaze to the steer and tried to will himself into composure.

“Your instinct has given us advantage.” Galadriel smoothly assumed charge of the conversation and for once, Glorfindel was glad for that. 

“Estel is the descendant of my brother,” Elrond said quietly. 

“Estel is not held by the Oath.” Galadriel walked to the railings and stared south at a point only she could discern. “He is Isildur’s heir, who was grandson to Amandil, the last lord of Andúnë . The true line of your brother ruled in the capital city of Armenelos.”

“The true line of Elros died with the usurper’s fall,” Elrond cut in. “Elendil and his heirs were all that remained of my brother’s blood after Akallabêth.”

“Of blood, yes.” Galadriel smiled mirthlessly. “But otherwise?”

“What mean you?” Thranduil asked, knowing well by long years of experience that the quiet weighing taking place in her sun-flecked eyes had never bidden well.

“Pharazôn!” It was Erestor who whispered. “They did not-”

“My cousin drew too deeply, I fear.” Galadriel sighed and walked away. 

“You forget that we remain in the dark,” Celeborn interjected before Elrond could do the same with less civilised words.

“Pharazôn fell,” Elrond added in a brittle tone. He had grieved bitterly for the fall of his brother’s scion and the destruction of Númenor. 

“And all the fleets of the Númenóreans were drawn down into the abyss, and they were drowned and swallowed up for ever. But Ar-Pharazôn the King and the mortal warriors that had set foot upon the land of Aman were buried under falling hills: there it is said that they lie imprisoned in the Caves of the Forgotten, until the Last Battle and the Day of Doom.”

“Forgotten,” Erestor intoned softly, his gaze darkening in a strange mixture of hope and wretched guilt. “Galadriel, we cannot manipulate fate.”

“Then we need not,” Galadriel came to stand before her nephew, her eyes blazing with recklessness. “Surrender yourself to the judgement of the Valar, and I shall hope that you are spared the Void.”

“You will not be as foolish as to thwart fate deliberately?” Thranduil asked fearfully.

“My cousin manipulated fate and took upon himself the penance!” She was a lone tower of fury and grief. “Would you ask me to spit in the face of his sacrifice for my family and walk away into the Mahanaxar a blind fool?”

“Our family,” Elrond said, now finally realising what she intended. “But I will not play with fate, Galadriel. We cannot. They are mightier than us and will defeat whatever army we summon, even if the warriors lie under the hills of Aman, forgotten and nonexistent but for an oath that binds them to me! Bloodshed there shall be and innocent lives lost!”

“For the cause,” Galadriel started heatedly.

But Elrond cut her off saying, “Enough have been killed for the cause, Galadriel.”

“Erestor.” Galadriel turned to her nephew. “There is no other way.”

Erestor’s dark eyes flicked from her unrelenting gaze to Elrond’s equally determined one. He was being asked to choose, as he had once chosen before in the matter of Arwen. He had then proffered his allegiance to Galadriel. Elrond had forgiven him. But now at stake was everything he had fought for, including the most sacred tenet of his life; Elrond himself.

 

“Celebrían?”

The voice was familiar, yet hard to place. It lingered as the scent of camphor in her memories, evading the capture of her recognition.

“Celebrían?” 

She opened her eyes and found herself once again within the turret chamber where yet remained the grotesque tapestry of death. Shuddering, she sat up and tried to form words though she failed utterly in the attempt.

“Hush, we must not tarry here.” 

Celebrían looked at the slender fingers that squeezed her wrist before bringing her gaze to the quiet serenity of the clear eyes that regarded her.

“Melian,” she whispered, recognising the woman who had been the ruler of Doriath in an age long forgotten.

“Come.” 

“What happened?” Celebrían could not form words to describe the scene that was spread before them.

“Come! To remain here would be folly.” 

Celebrían noticed that Melian’s eyes were lustrous with tears. That more than anything else, impressed upon her the danger inherent, and she hastily complied. Melian led her out of the turret, down the winding stairs, out into the courtyard of the grim, silent mansion, away from the sinisterly tolling bells and finally through the long deserted halls into the world beyond that reveled in the glorious noonday sun.

A carriage awaited them and Celebrían climbed into it without bidding. Melian followed her and the lands sped by as the horses galloped east. Celebrían had not yet comprehended the entirety of her rescue and remained still, numbed by shock and terror.

Graceful as ever, Melian silently slipped across the seats to her companion’s side and gently dabbed away the trickle of vomit that ran down petrified lips.

“Why?” 

The question fell unheeded into the shroud of silence as did a lone tear down Melian’s face. Celebrían knew that the slain had meant more to Melian than a mere acquaintance. 

“Halt the carriage!” 

It was Eönwë. Had he returned midway, perhaps having had an inkling of foreboding? Celebrían slid open the carriage doors and stepped out. Eönwë sighed in relief before coming to embrace her roughly.

“I feared that something-” he sighed again.

“Death.”

Celebrían had never heard her own voice turn so despondent and weary of enduring. Eönwë’s gaze widened in shock and his lips uttered sounds that made not sense in any language spoken since the making of the world.

“Eönwë!” Melian stepped out.

“Melyanna!” Eönwë hastily let go of his hold on Celebrían and strode to Melian. “What has happened?”

“Nienna was slain.” 

 

 

“My lady Varda,” Finarfin greeted her quietly. “Once you offered me words of solace as I sailed east to seek my child.”

“Words of solace are no longer mine to offer.” Varda’s corporeal form was dulled by grief and made brittle by an eternity of suffering. 

“You cannot condemn my child to die at sea!” Finarfin fell to his knees before her, begging her succour as he had done two Ages ago.

“Can you convince her to abandon her cause, Arafinwë?” Varda implored. “Then I can have her spared.”

Finarfin remained where he was, upon his knees, his hands outstretched in a beseeching prayer, his eyes holding grief unshielded.

“If she surrenders the cause, Manwë shall spare her life. You have my word, Arafinwë,” Varda repeated softly.

“Then let her die!” It was Eärwen of Alqualondë, who had accompanied Finarfin on the journey to Taniquetil.

“Eärwen!” Finarfin shouted.

“No,” Eärwen said wearily. “Let her die, Arafinwë. We shall not betray her cause for saving her life.”

“You seek to avenge your father’s death,” Varda said quietly. “You shall not be satisfied until your daughter has been destroyed by the wrath of the Valar.”

“You understand me not.” Tears ran down Eärwen’s cheeks as she whispered, “My lady, I would die for saving my daughter though she deserves not a lenient judgement. But I cannot save her at the cost of the cause for which she has willingly brought down curses upon herself.”

“Eärwen,” Finarfin said, aghast.

“No, my lord.” Eärwen’s blue eyes were stricken, but determined. “Cowards we were. But our child has never known cowardice. Let her die as she lived; without knowing servitude.”

Varda closed her eyes as the familiar emotions of regret and guilt consumed her from within. As if ringing in the words of Eärwen, a high, cold bell began tolling from beyond Tuna. Varda knew that it boded but one thing.

 

“Macalaurë.”

Maglor turned to face the woman who had borne the brunt of his sins and regret flashed involuntarily within his eyes before he effectively masked it with polite curiosity.

“He did all that he could, and beyond what he could.”

Maglor did not reply, though the increase in the pulse that beat under the skin of his throat testified to the pain that had ravaged his heart for centuries. He knew what was left to do. And he knew that he did not have the strength to do it.

“Your mother bartered the Silmaril that sails in the sky for your life,” Carnilótë said quietly. “He bartered his soul for yours. You cannot fail now.”

She had never found the strength to name the ghost that had destroyed their marriage. But they knew whom she referred to and that sufficed. 

Maglor finally spoke, though his voice was ridden by doubt and regret. “And you, Carnilótë, you bartered your heart’s happiness for that of mine.”

“Then let me not regret it!” she said furiously. “Will you spurn our sacrifices? My heart! Your mother’s freedom! And his soul!”

“Why did you never hate him?” Maglor asked quietly. 

She inhaled sharply and looked away. 

 

The First Age, Gelion, Plains of Lothlann.

Her husband had been brought down by an arrow of the wildmen that plagued the plains. She had nursed him back to health, often remarking that he made a poor patient. The healers had concurred with her on that, and delighted in plying him with sleeping draughts so as to limit his incessant complaints.

Then had come, during one moonless night, without scouts and warriors, the person who had driven her husband to this marriage.

“I heard of the injury!” he exclaimed in worry as he burst into the royal wing, his grey eyes shining in earnest worry.

“It was a mere scratch, my lord.” She had tried reassuring him. “He was unfortunate enough to let down his guard at a time most inopportune.”

“He has been unfortunate in many matters,” he had murmured, a streak of sadness marring his voice.

“He, you and I,” she had whispered.

Their gazes had met then, his terrified and hers calm. Then he had said quietly, “I will not endeavour to gain what I deserve not.”

She had understood the depth of his regard for her husband then. She knew that the marriage would not be broken, at least not by him.

“I should leave,” he said uneasily. “Telpë waits for me at Himring. If any know of my journey hither, I shall not be soon forgiven, for I came equipped with neither men nor a good mount.”

“Shall I lead you to his chamber?” She had asked. “He is asleep. But we can wake him.”

“If you have the least measure of pity for the quagmire in that I find myself,” his lips had quirked in wry ruefulness, “then spare him the tidings of my arrival. I will leave now.”

He had not usurped her though he effortlessly could have done so any day. He had won her respect. And she did not hate him anymore than she hated her brooding husband.

 

 

“My dear?”

Strange, she observed, how easily the endearment still came forth from his lips. She shook her head and offered an apologetic smile.

“What shall you do, Macalaurë?”

He did not reply immediately, instead choosing to walk over to the window. Then he said, his voice free from regret and burning with determination.

“He asked me to live. And live I shall. Find Eönwë and my mother.”

“Arafinwë shall return with Varda’s counsel,” she reminded him gently.

“We cannot afford to tarry.”

“Thus be it, then.” She nodded and left him to his thoughts.

 

 

“He has decided.” 

Carnilótë joined Nerdanel upon the large terrace of the house where Finwë had once dwelt with Míriel Serindë.

“I worry for Celebrían.” Nerdanel looked west. “Perhaps she has tarried awhile with Nienna?”

Carnilótë did not reply, her eyes fixed on the arbour where her daughter sang a sweet song of reunion and joy rediscovered. 

“Shall Eärendil surrender the Silmaril?” she asked Nerdanel. 

“The Silmarilli belong to my son by right of inheritance,” Nerdanel said firmly. “He shall cede the one he bears to Macalaurë.”

“And will Macalaurë give it up to the Valar?” Carnilótë asked dubiously. She knew well her stubbornness of one who had been her spouse.

“If he does not wish to, it would be in his interests to not procrastinate,” Nerdanel sighed. “I cannot believe that I am encouraging my son to take up this course.”

“But you must,” Carnilótë said gently, placing her fingers on the palms that were fisted on the railings of the terrace.

They had built a steady rapport over the centuries. Nerdanel considered her family, though the marriage was long dissolved. The people of Tirion referred to her as the wife of Maglor, for they knew not of absolved vows. Carnilótë would often reflect wryly that her existence had, as always, effectively served as a false front to the dark truth of Maglor’s heart.

“I have never asked you before,” Nerdanel began quietly. “But I have long yearned to.”

“You know that I would answer if it was in my power to,” Carnilótë said reassuringly, though her mind raced with the many questions which she had no wish to answer, including the reason why she had abandoned her son when he had been but a newborn babe.

“I don’t seek to cause you pain,” Nerdanel murmured. “But I must know, and there is none but you that I can ask.”

After gathering her courage, keeping her eyes fixed on the cheerping birds playing their mating games within the tree branches, she finally found the resolve to continue.

“How long did they have?” 

Carnilótë exhaled. As a mother, she had demanded the same of Menelwen, after hearing rumours of the unhappy parting with Glorfindel. She understood Nerdanel’s need to know. She merely wished that she had an answer that would ease her companion’s heart.

“The truth is that they did not have long.” 

Nerdanel’s head drooped to her bosom in defeat and she whispered, “Tell me.”

Carnilótë found it easier to continue now that she had started. “There was Artanis. Though she ceased their relationship before leaving these shores, the tragedies that they had been through brought them together again. Macalaurë married me for duty.” 

She decided that it would not hurt Nerdanel if she were to leave out Maglor’s true reasons. 

“The wars and the constant vigil meant that they did not admit what was between them until Nírnaeth Arnoediad. I retired to Círdan’s palace, for I did not want to steal what little they had.” 

She had done her utmost to make Maglor understand what everyone else had realised; that his brother would never take the first step. But Maglor had remained true to his oath of not touching his brother with that intent and the unresolved issue had driven all concerned into despair. It had taken subtle words of counsel from Curufin before Maedhros had finally found the courage to breach the issue. 

Maglor had wanted the brother he had worshipped from childhood. She had feared, and Curufin shared the fear, that Maglor’s regard would not suffice to tide over the void between the elegant prince he had loved and the shell that remained. But their fears had been needless. Maglor loved as he did everything else; with his father’s damned stubbornness and constancy. 

 

 

The First Age, Mithlond.

He had stared at her in that peculiar, intense manner of his all through dinner. After that, as she made her excuses to retire, he had risen and taken her hand gently, a silent request held in his eloquent eyes. She had swallowed, but nodded and led him out to the ramparts of Círdan’s castle.

“You are pregnant,” he murmured as soon as they were alone.

“Don’t tell Macalaurë,” she had implored. “Our vows are absolved. This was a mistake.”

“I sensed that,” he admitted. “You will forgive me my actions after-” he brought a ring to her gaze and shifted uneasily.

She inhaled sharply, seeing past the elegance of the ring to the secret contained in the simple band. Never in all the years they had danced around each other had she seen a single hint of his need to affirm his relationship with Maglor through something as trite as rings and vows. 

“I would have released him from our marriage long ago if I had known a bond matters so to you!” she exclaimed, seeing the desperate happiness contained in the usually placid eyes.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” he explained earnestly. “I wanted him to be happy, with his daughter, with you.” He had swallowed and turned away. “But you broke your marriage and I could not restrain my selfishness.”

“I am only sorry that I bear his child now.” She sighed. “I had not anticipated it. The fertility cycle, I thought there was no reason to fear conception.”

“What shall you do?” he asked quietly.

“I will take the child west with me when I sail,” she replied immediately. “I will not let the child suffer for my mistake!”

He had contemplated the matter silently before asking urgently, “I may be insane, but my bane of foresight is not to be denied. Will you hear my counsel?”

“I will not leave my child!” she exclaimed, seeing what he was asking of her.

“He, for it is a son,” he said, “his future is in Middle Earth.”

“Lord Nelyafinwë !” she had nearly screamed. “How can I leave my child as an orphan?”

“I have robbed you of family and spouse. Now I ask your son of you,” he laughed bitterly. “You must loathe me, Carnilótë.”

“Not of spouse.” He flinched when she placed her hand on his wrist. The grey eyes were haunted by misery and loneliness. “Not of spouse,” she repeated. “He had been yours before he had ever been mine.”

“I wish it had not been so. You deserve him. I don’t.”

“I will leave my child in Círdan’s care,” she said quietly. “You have never sought to usurp my place. You have always granted me respect and chivalry. I know that you cannot deliberately harm Macalaurë’s son any more than you can harm Macalaurë.”

“I will die, Carnilótë.” 

She had flinched and turned away from the plainspoken words. But in her heart she knew it was true. He had been dying slowly for years, ever since Doriath. 

“If he travels west after you,” he had begun softly, tentatively, fear resounding in his voice, “would you?”

Then she understood what he was implying. Her words held only kindness and pity when she said, “If he sails west, he shall have a friend in me.”

 

 

 

 

“I had known.” Nerdanel turned to face her, desperate wretchedness in her brown eyes. “I had known my son’s heart. I could have done something!”

“Everybody knew your son’s heart,” Carnilótë said kindly. “But there was nothing we could have done to end their proud, vulnerable dance.”

“I meant Maitimo’s heart,” Nerdanel whispered. “I had seen it in him long ago, before Macalaurë was even of age. He was an excellent actor, or perhaps he had not known what festered in his heart. Close they were, always; closer than brothers in their hearts, though chaste the closeness remained. If only I had spoken, they could have had more than what they did.”

 

 

Maglor Fëanorion wondered what his mother had said to make Carnilótë seem so stricken. He did not dwell on it, though. He was used to his mother’s blunt manner of speaking. Perhaps he had inherited it from her. 

“Father!” Menelwen came to his side, her face shining in anticipation of reunion with Glorfindel. “It is good to see you out and about on such a glorious day!”

“It is good indeed if you are as happy as you seem, my dear.” 

He drew her to him and kissed her brow. Across them, Carnilótë watched the moment of tenderness with an indiscernible emotion flashing in her brown eyes. 

 

 

“What shall you choose?” Glorfindel asked his troubled friend.

“What would you choose if you were in my place?” Erestor asked bitterly. “Love or duty?”

Glorfindel’s eyes darkened to indigo before he murmured, “Twice I chose duty over love and twice I regretted.”

“My sister.” Erestor tested the waters cautiously, his curiosity spurring him to breach the barriers of reserve that hid Glorfindel’s heart. “And another?”

“Another.” Glorfindel flinched at the word and turned away, his features crimsoning in embarrassment. 

“I shall not judge.” A gentle hand turned him about to meet the dark, frank gaze that his friend had inherited from the bard himself. 

“I was young and I was foolish,” Glorfindel said, flustered and worried. “He was older, wiser than I was and yet I wanted him. I chased him, I harried him, I bullied him, until I had him as mine. But it was a cursed love and could not have ended in any other way. I knew there would be never happiness again, I believed in that. Then came along your sister, and I learnt to love again.”

Erestor forced himself to hold Glorfindel’s defiant, troubled gaze and sorted through his muddled thoughts. Then he thought of Ereinion, Elrond and Celebrían. Glorfindel had stood by him through everything. 

He did the only thing he could. He stepped forward and embraced his friend, tutor and fosterer.

“He would want you to love and rejoice again,” he said confidently. Ereinion had wanted it for him. 

“My lover is unlikely to feel so charitable,” Glorfindel laughed wanly. “Particularly since I was the one who seduced him despite his aversion to the idea.”

“Who was he?” 

Erestor had already begun speculation. Perhaps Ecthelion? Perhaps Turgon? Maeglin? It had to be someone before the fall of Gondolin, of that he was sure. 

Glorfindel’s voice broke on the single word that was his past lover’s name.

“Mairon.”

* * *

Valinor,  
4th Age.

 

“Is it Arafinwë?” I enquired impatiently at the sound of the carriage drawing into the courtyard.

Menelwen, who had retired with me to the study, leaving Carnilótë and my mother to their solemn discussion, now walked across to the east facing window and cast her gaze down to the courtyard. She frowned and shook her head. 

“The banners are those of Valmar. Ingwë sends an ambassador, perchance.” 

“I doubt it,” I remarked acerbically. “Ingwë has ever preferred to correspond with Celebrían or my mother. He deems the rest of our family highly susceptible to mood swings and kinslaying.”

Menelwen looked over at me, her eyes holding a healthy measure of wariness and worry. I suppressed a sigh. She perhaps agreed with Ingwë on the matter. Then she fumbled with the large curtain that screened the window, debate clear on her visage as she struggled with the unvoiced question.

“Ask, my dear,” I said gently, wishing that I could restrain my sarcasm and bluntness when with her. She was easily unnerved, something I did not know how to manage, given that the women I knew intimately were all more than capable of holding their own in conversation with anyone.

“Glorfindel once told me that,” she paused and blushed furiously before picking up her sentence again, “that you preferred men. Is that why you don’t stay with Mother?”

I set down the quill that had been hastily penning a message of intent to Queen Eärwen of Alqualondë and glared, though not even the least portion of my chagrin was directed at her. She mumbled an apology and looked away.

“I don’t prefer men.” I leavened my words with hard-bought mildness. “Laurefindë did not know me well. We moved in different circles of society.” 

She was still unsatisfied, and I continued no further, for the explanation was not one I wished to essay in speech. But I had spoken the truth. I did not prefer men at all. It was far worse - I had had the magnificent misfortune of irrevocably falling in love with that fool who was my elder brother. It had crept on me until it seemed one morning that I had always been thus; in thrall of the ideal he represented.

“I asked Mother,” my daughter said quietly.

I rose to my feet and pulled the bellrope, summoning the page into the chamber. Handing him the message I had scrawled to Eärwen, I gave him instructions and waited until the door had closed behind him before I walked over to my daughter’s side.

“What did she say?”

“Merely that I was never to ask you under any circumstance,” she smiled wanly. 

“I did never deserve her,” I said truthfully. “No more than I deserved you.”

“If you had wanted to marry Galadriel, you could have done so, couldn’t you?” She beseeched answers, the raw pain of being orphaned lighting her eyes in misery. “I never had answers. I asked Círdan, Celebrimbor, Glorfindel and even Galadriel herself. All in vain. And when my brother was growing up, he would often ask me the same, why you had never come to us, and why Mother had left us. I had learnt to accept the situation. But he had nothing of you, and nothing of Mother, to remember you by. He despaired often, though only I saw that beneath his calm.” 

“But he stopped asking,” I finished bitterly, hating myself for the marring of their childhood by my absence. It had been for their good, so I had believed then, that I stayed away from sullying them with my cursed existence.

“Gil was there, though.” My daughter took my hands in hers and squeezed reassuringly. “He took me to Lindon when I was of age to be presented at court. Círdan, too, though I was initially hard put to realise his regard, given he was as unfathomable as the sea that loves him.”

Gil-Galad - Ereinion, my brother had named him. I had called him a bastard, for I hated everything that even tenuously traced their origins to my fallen cousin who had touched my brother in ways which made me regret that I had not killed him myself. But Ereinion had emerged from his father’s taint, as much as was possible for a son to be rid of legacy, something that I knew from personal experience to be near impossible. He had not nursed old grudges against my family, instead stepping into the role that was mine to fulfil. He had made the best out of circumstances and ensured that my children survived. Artanis had done the same, but Artanis and I were bound ever by more than kinship. 

And Círdan. Círdan had no reason to not cast my children away. But he had not done that. The deep respect he had for Carnilótë certainly must have contributed to his generosity. But underneath was a reason closer to heart that I refused to think upon. 

“Ada?” 

I smiled and shook my head ruefully, burying the familiar thread of possessiveness that reared its head within my heart whenever thoughts veered close to the memories of one who would be my damnation at the end. 

“You deserve an answer,” I told her. “And an answer you shall have. Not now.” Not now indeed. How was I to explain? 

“After my brother has come,” she said goodnaturedly, content enough to let the matter drop without causing me unease.

“I admire your courage,” I remarked. “Among us all, you remain the only one who seems to entertain not the least of fears as regards the current situation.” 

She turned to face me fully, her brown eyes reminding me of my mother’s steady gaze that had been uncannily adept at luring our secrets out when my brothers and I had been young. 

“I met him in Eregion,” she whispered, her breath turning faster.

I caressed her smooth fall of brown hair and frowned at her, worried by the veil dropped over her usually frank eyes. She was ill inclined towards subtlety and vagueness, preferring plainspeech and plainer actions. That, I was utterly sure, was my legacy. Diplomacy and its attendant mannerisms had ever sat ill with me. It remained one of those ironies of life that those closest to me had been unforgivably talented at the art. 

“Sauron.” 

I flinched and stepped away, not fearing the name, but fearing the implications. Sauron - no, as Mairon I had known him and as Mairon I continued to think of him. Of course, I hated him. That was not because he had nearly destroyed Middle-Earth with his ambition. As much as I loathe to say, neither was my hatred because he had once loved, and been loved, by the man whom my daughter had later entrusted her heart to. The core of my hatred was for a far simpler reason; he had been one of the many persecutors who had broken flawlessness beyond salvation.

“He said that I had nothing to fear from him.” Menelwen took a shuddering breath and glanced up nervously at me. “He said that I could sail, whenever I wished to, and that Glorfindel would return to me when his responsibilities to Middle-Earth were over.”

“He was convincing when he wished it. Telpë’s fall should teach you that,” I said sternly.

Hope in itself was not terrible or sinful. But hope without basis, built on that blackguard’s smooth lies, that I would not countenance even if it meant that my daughter despaired. 

“I believe him.” 

I stared at her incredulously. She met my gaze unyielding before whispering, “So would you, Father, if you have ever loved.”

And it comes to this: that I who spurned family, friendship and children for a wretched, yet hallowed union would be accused of having never loved. Yet I had to remain silent. Even Mairon had professed his love for Laurefindë without drawing upon them scorn and doom. But I could not do that, because of the very laws that my brother had discarded as offal in his life. 

 

Himring,  
The First Age.

 

After the events of the night that would ever remain imprinted in my mind, Russandol had arranged for a pleasant luncheon; inviting our brothers for a last meal ere we departed for war.

I had not paid attention to the conversation, being rather occupied by watching the twitching of slender fingers in a restless staccato upon the fine wood. I fought the urge to blush as I remembered they had indulged in the same movements upon my bloodwarmed flesh. 

But politics had given way to entertainment and that in turn had led to jocular sibling teasing that characterised our family even in the darkest hours. 

“You seem sleepy,” Carnistro had nudged Atarinkë. “Dreaming of Turkáno and taking matters to hand again?”

“Again?” Russandol asked teasingly.

“Two sightings thus far,” Carnistro supplied and we laughed at Atarinkë’s most fetching blush which was accompanied by a curse that would have earned him a mighty lecture had father heard it. 

“You mistake,” Atarinkë muttered as gleeful laughter faded to restrained mirth.

“Turkáno would be unforgiving if you are thinking of others,” I remarked. “He has never been fond of sharing.”

“I would rather not discuss my thoughts on Turkáno with the lot of you.” He sniffed in disgust at our laughter. “But, the reason why I was drawn into daydreams is something else altogether.” He met my gaze with dark promise spelt in his eyes.

“No, you don’t!” I exclaimed in horror.

“Yes, I shall!” he rejoined merrily, clearly delighting in the sudden discomposure I faced.

“I f you even dare breathe a word!” I rose to my feet, all traces of mirth vanishing abruptly from my mien.

“Macalaurë.” Russandol’s hand came to clasp my wrist in reassurance. I glared at him, and he merely winked at me saying, “As I said earlier, I have very selfish reasons to keep you away from brawls and duels.”

“Finally?” Carnistro chuckled.

“Finally, indeed,” Atarinkë agreed wholeheartedly. 

There was silence and then laughter again. I fumed, muttered threats and tried to shake off my brother’s grip on my wrist. Then I relented and succumbed with an insane grin. I sat down and was awarded promptly by a teasing caress along the length of my wrist before his fingers retreated to a respectable distance. 

“Don’t tell me that he has already begun manipulating you,” Carnistro teased me.

“You wound me, brother!” Russandol said, with an apt expression of injured dignity. “The very idea!”

“Is depraved in the eyes of the Gods and our people!” Tyelkormo broke the merry air with his heavy words that struck me like a cudgel in the guts.

“Brother,” Ambarto, ever reluctant to embroil himself in family melodrama, reached out to draw away Tyelko’s ire before it worsened.

“Not a word! The soldiers speak, Maitimo! Ere the furore and scandal associated with the relationship you had with our cousin, need you draw Macalaurë into the web? He is married!”

“My personal preferences are my own,” Russandol said calmly, the same response he always had whenever the argument erupted between Tyelko and him. 

“He is married,” Tyelko grounded through clenched teeth.

I closed my eyes, wishing that I was yet where I had been at dawn this day, without the prospect of facing brothers and warriors, family and wife. 

“I have noticed the fact,” Russandol said coolly. “Even if he were not, you would still disapprove.”

“He is your brother!” Tyelko exclaimed in horror. For his part, he had always been convinced by what he believed in. Even Irissë’s death had not changed that. 

“It is requited,” Atarinkë gently interrupted, knowing well that the argument would cost us more than kinship, standing as we did on the eve of battle.

“Macalaurë has never given in.” Tyelko cast his weapon accurately, and Russandol flinched at the truth of it. “Macalaurë swore never to give in.”

I saw doubt in my elder brother’s grey eyes, turning them darker in their turmoil. His fingers came to sweep back the curls that had ever defied him even as he defied convention and morality. 

Taking a deep breath, I drew away those fingers from their task and clasped them between my hands. Tyelko cursed and Ambarto sighed. Atarinkë merely looked on while Carnistro remarked something to the effect of my stubbornness. 

Russandol flinched when I brought his fingers to my lips, imprinting upon them a chaste kiss that would have been simply interpreted as fealty had one not known the deeper regard that lay between us. The doubt in his eyes gave way to incredulity and vulnerable warmth, the stoic calm was replaced by wonderment, and a near inaudible word that vaguely resembled my name was uttered by the lips I had explored in detail the previous night.

I squeezed his fingers before turning to face our brothers. They did not argue with me on the most jovial of occasions. And on a day when I was as intensely charged with emotion as now, they would not even dream of opposing.

Strangely, it was Russandol who broke the silence, casting a potent question couched in mildness.

“You don’t think it immoral?”

I did think it immoral and forbidden. I envied his remarkably lax morals. I craved to find a measure of happiness; to proclaim to the world what I had been graced with. Yet it was forbidden and would be ever hidden by the night.

“I care not to think of anything beyond what is ours,” I responded finally, trying to negotiate the line between my guilt, sadness and the deep regard I bore him.

“He hates himself, put simply,” Tyelko offered a helpful translation.

Russandol glared at him, and then glared at me. I met his gaze helplessly and he offered a rueful smile. But I could see the twinkle sparkling in his eyes and I knew immediately that he had something in mind. Before I could voice my suspicions, he leant forward and spoke in his damnably silken tones.

“Discretion is important to me, for I don’t share our family’s penchant for exhibitionism. But that does not imply I am ashamed of what I am, and of what I need, and of what I am fortunate to have.”

I swallowed at the declaration that rung with pride despite the cloak of refinement which shrouded it. Regret wafted away, at least for the moment. My brother rose to his feet, cleared his throat in a manner that I identified with nervousness. He stooped over to kiss the corner of my lips before hurriedly retreating, uncomfortable as he was with gestures of emotional intimacy. Indeed, from what I had seen of his preferences, he would rather have played out one of the dastardly power games he had indulged in with our cousin than attempting as simple as a lover’s kiss. 

“I have matters to attend to,” he was saying as he made for the door, clearly flustered by his own actions. “But brothers of mine, I don’t consider this relationship sullied in any manner. And,” he included us all in a sweeping, wry glance, “I can attest to that having known taint and desecration in many forms.”

 

 

Valinor,  
4th Age.

 

“I have loved, Menelwen,” I told my daughter, spurred on the memory of a brave prince who had set aside his customary horror of emotional display for my sake, for the sake of what we had. “I have loved deeper than many can ever achieve in an eternity.”

Her face blanched and her eyes widened as the raw emotion contained within my voice burned true and fierce. 

“Who is it?”

I smiled and shook my head. I was no longer forced silent by my own view on forbidden passion. It was something else. What we had was fragile, magical and too ethereal to be voiced in bland words or fervent declarations that would fade with the wind. Him I held within me yet, and not a word would leave my lips to break the charm of consolation lent by those savoured, greedily stored away, precious memories.

I had been possessive of him. Why would I be any less possessive of his memories? 

Possessiveness, indeed, that quality of mine had often amused him, vexed him and would earn me an exasperated ‘Macalaurë!’ when I scowled at those who dared come near him with intent I did not favour.

 

 

 

Ered Lindon,  
1st Age.

 

I found him in the woods, languidly sprawled upon the verdant carpet of spring greenery, eyes light and clear as they stared unblinkingly at the vast expanse of the skies above.

“Conversing with the sun?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly as he smiled and gracefully lifted his hand in invitation.

“I would remove my armour first. It is deucedly uncomfortable. However you wear it for prolonged periods, I fail to fathom!”

At the mention of the word ‘armour’, his eyes flicked across to my form. I nearly spluttered at the coy appraisal contained within the suddenly darkened grey gaze.

“It is one of my quirks.” 

He sat up and fought down laughter at my look of incredulity. When he beckoned me closer and knelt up, placing a cheek flush against the sunwarmed metal of my breastplate, I took the opportunity to tangle my fingers in his hair, an activity they had sorely missed over the last fortnight while away from him.

“What does your imagination suggest?”

I snorted, though my heart gave one of its ridiculous jumps at the teasing words. Of course, the obvious suggestion that would arise from our positioning held no favour with us, he was uncomfortable with the act. Moreover, I had missed him. Carnality held its appeal, but what I had missed more was the simple joy of conversations interspersed with companionable silence.

I knelt before him and mapped his features, swatting his hand away when it came to play caressingly under my jaw. 

“Tell me what it is about the sun that enamours you so.”

His smile turned self-mocking, but he did not change the subject. Taking that as an opening, I asked again, looping my hands about his waist in a manner that echoed possessiveness rather abominably. But I had been away for nearly fifteen days and I believed that I was entitled to it.

“The sun,” he squinted up at the bright orb of gold before continuing thoughtfully, “There had been only darkness and pain. Then there were the rocks.” He kissed me then, slowly and lingeringly, with the ease of experience and familiarity. Withdrawing, he continued, “It scorched me first. Painful beyond anything else. But I revelled in it, for it was the first sensation I had in a long time, after I had been turned numb by enchantment and wind. Blood flowed again, warm and pulsing, in my veins and I saw the light.”

What I had to say was trite and would not alleviate anything at all. But he knew what I felt then, for he returned to his banter of afore. 

“Men in armour,” he began, “are very, very attractive, would you not say?”

“How many men in armour have you been attracted to?” I demanded with a scowl.

“Two,” he said easily.

“Two?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Two.” He smiled invitingly.

I did not even try to resist. I toppled him to the forest green, pinning him down with my armour-weighed body.

“Who were they?” I panted. Findekáno had loathed armour. Or had he worn it expressly to quench my brother’s whim?

“A certain wildly handsome specimen who hailed from Doriath,” he murmured, eyes too dilated and fetching right then. “He had the most magnificent pectoral muscles of anyone I have ever seen. And the abdominal alignment - the glorious sight would have made one weep.”

I claimed his lips, and felt a dark swell of satisfaction as they yielded to mine. After rendering him speechless through techniques tested and continuously improved over years, I lay beside him quenched for the moment.

“I would have worn my armour continuously had I known you had an interest in seeing me thus!” I wheezed finally, after gaining a measure of control over my breathing. 

He merely hummed in his throat. I turned to regard him, a smile breaking forth on my face at the sight he made; indolently debauched, content and as satiated as a feline in the sun. 

“You will not remark upon the pectoral glory of former lovers,” I stipulated half-heartedly.

“You will not share reminiscences of Artanis when your hands are otherwise employed on my body,” he bargained with a teasing quirk of his lips.

“Fair, I daresay,” I muttered, before wriggling out of my armour and making myself comfortable by his side. 

“Do you entertain no curiosity as to the identity of the second person?” His waggling fingers blocked my view of the leafy canopy above. 

“We had a bargain.” I could barely tolerate mentions of Findekáno when I was in the best of humour.

“Indeed.” His fingers came to pinch my nose in a ridiculously childish gesture. “It was you, of course. After Nírnaeth Arnoediad, you were all fire and fury, remember?”

“Tent pegs?” I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes. “You were so affected by the sight that you had to collapse the tent upon us.”

“Those fondly remembered tent pegs,” he laughed. “Well, if you had insisted upon another position, perhaps we might have had a transcendental interlude of wartime passion.”

He had never been able to abide the position in which I had manoeuvred him into that night. I was torn between embarrassment, contriteness and dismay, the last emotion for that we had lost the chance to bring about the interlude. 

“Never mind,” he offered, mischief sparkling in his voice. “If Elros continues deflowering all the girls in our vicinity, we will soon have a feud on our hands. We shall have ample chances to experience wartime passion then.”

“I stand consoled,” I said dryly.

 

Valinor,  
4th Age.

 

“Maglor!”

It was Celebrían. Menelwen answered the door and I saw the tears trailing down Celebrían’s face. 

“’Bria?” I asked gently, worry concealed by the mask of calm I had perfected over the centuries.

“Nienna was slain.” 

 

 

Ered Lindon,  
1st Age.

 

“Why didn’t the Valar kill Moringotto?” Elros asked dubiously as I taught him the Ainulindalë. 

“Perhaps they would have been bored without him,” offered my brother, ever eager to interrupt my lessons with blasphemous insinuations. I glared at him to cease, but he maintained his expression of perfect innocence. 

“Why didn’t they kill him?” 

It was Elrond now. I wisely remained silent. With Elros, one could manage distraction. Elrond was as tenacious as I was and I wished my brother luck with the questioning. 

“The Ainur, Elrond,” my brother began quietly, “are endowed with the Flame Imperishable. Music was all that was in the beginning. From music was created all. The Ainur learnt to sing alone ere they learnt to compose in harmony. Time passed, they found greater joy in cooperation rather than composing alone. Yet, that does not mean they are dependent on each other. Moringotto made his theme, composed his music by that theme and came to what he now is. To kill him would be to destroy his theme. The Ainur are as musical instruments; some are more powerful than others. The music of Moringotto is mighty and possesses few weaknesses. It would take more than cooperation to destroy his composition.”

“Does this mean that he can be destroyed if the composition is stronger than what he has created?” Elrond asked softly, his eyes gleaming in curiosity.

Russandol’s mien fell into nonchalance and my suspicions were aroused. Though he deferred to my lead in our intimacy, it did not extend to other aspects of our lives. His mind remained as inscrutable as ever to me.

“Indeed, Elrond. That is true for any of the Ainur.”

“Then why did he simply not take the Void and create his theme there?” Elros demanded, frowning earnestly.

“Music crafted the worlds from a part of the Void. Music can craft new themes in the rest of the Void too. But the song must be kindled by the Imperishable Flame, the secret of which is known only to Eru. Moringotto did not know how to make light, or to capture it, and thus he remains in these lands.” 

“For he that attempteth to capture light shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.” I quoted off from the Ainulindalë, wondering at the strange passage brought to my mind by my brother’s explanation.

Russandol nodded and continued gravely, “Beside the waters of the Cuiviénen, there awoke the first instrument of Eru - our grandmother. She carried the flame within her, until it consumed her. The Enemy coveted her, but could not distort the music that was hers, for she was too pure to ever give in to taint. Then was born our father,” his eyes turned wistfully sad. “He knew abandonment, loss and pain. He was malleable to the Enemy’s purposes, being brilliant, devoted and eager to prove himself. And he was the Flame Imperishable.”

“Is his soul in the jewels he made?” Elrond asked in a hushed voice.

I looked across at my brother, knowing well that he remembered the fateful day as clearly as I did. He inclined his head subtly and I took over.

“His soul bound him and it binds us by oath and by blood to the Silmarilli.”

“Yet they speak of the curse on the house of Finwë,” Elros remarked.

“The house of Nolofinwë and the children of Arafinwë are bound to that of ours by blood and love. But Arafinwë himself, and those who stayed behind, are not condemned by the curse.”

“They don’t know the pleasures they have foregone!” 

Elrond winked, lightening the gloom that pervaded the chamber. Yet I saw solemnity in his eyes and I knew he would remember this conversation in the years that followed. 

 

 

Valinor,  
4th Age.

 

“How can a Vala be slain?” Menelwen asked, horrified. 

“By distortion of the Music,” my mother followed Celebrían into the chamber. “A subtle distortion indeed, since it appears that none but Ulmo discovered the dissonance immediately. Now they have convened at Taniquetil, trying to comprehend the loss.”

“Who?” I asked. “What purpose would there be in slaying her?”

“The abode of Nienna is the gate to that beyond the west, where they say lie the Void and emptiness,” my mother said quietly. “Macalaurë, we cannot tarry.”

“As soon as Arafinwë comes,” I agreed. “Artanis is in no immediate danger.”

“No,” Celebrían said promptly. “Melian said that Ulmo would not harm the ship. But it is merely a matter of time before Manwë turns his attention there. After the treachery behind Nienna’s slaying is found out, my mother will not have reprieve.”

“Artanis will laugh if she hears that we worry for her safety. She has always exhibited remarkable survival instincts,” I said briskly, trying my best not to betray the turmoil in my heart. I loved her just as my mother had loved my father even after their separation. 

“Nerdanel!”

It was my uncle. He cast a despairing gaze across us all before addressing my mother. 

“Varda cannot aid us.”

“It was expected,” Nerdanel said calmly.

“Eönwë returned with me. He bears dire tidings.” Arafinwë met my gaze in trepidation. “The Council of the Valar has found you guilty of distorting the song of Ainur and thus slaying Nienna.”

There was silence, followed immediately by the fierce protestations of Celebrían and Menelwen. My mother did not say anything, though her introspection seemed more inward than conversational. I fought down the urge to shout at the fools in Taniquetil that if I had ever possessed the skill to warp the music, I would have done long ago to keep my brother with me. But ire would earn me nothing now. 

So I took a deep breath and demanded of my uncle, “What have they asked of you? My surrender or something else?” 

“It does not matter.” Arafinwë smiled tightly. “I told them that they could not have you while I breathed.”

My life was worth nothing to me. But my brother had set a price on my life - a price that would claim its due in tears and blood. 

My uncle said heavily, “The city shall prepare for a siege. I have sent for my commanders.”

“Stay!” It was Carnilótë. “Summon our people. Let Macalaurë speak to them.”

“I am not my father,” I reminded her.

“Yet you are your father’s son,” she said determinedly. “Speak, and they will follow you. Please, they need to know what cause rivens Valinor by blood once again.” 

“I second Carnilótë,” my uncle said steadily. “I will have the summons announced.”

“I will go to Alqualondë,” Celebrían said with a grim smile. “I wish to see my mother as soon as I may. And Melian bides there.”

“Melian can protect you from harm.” Nerdanel nodded assent. 

My uncle was reluctant about letting his granddaughter leave, but he sighed and gave in when Celebrían fixed him with an imperiously pleading look. My mother cast me a reassuring glance before following Celebrían and Menelwen out of the chamber. Arafinwë was summoned by the arrival of a messenger and that left me with Carnilótë.

“I took the liberty of having armour made for you,” she said quietly. 

“Whyever would I wear something that impedes respiration on a sultry day as this?” I asked sardonically.

“You ought to. You are extremely handsome in armour,” she said firmly. “It might help to sway a few hearts.”

I flinched at the words, the self-same words once expressed by my brother. 

“He once said the same thing,” I said softly. His name was a charm, one I would not voice aloud under any circumstance. 

“Speak to the people as he would have done. Win their hearts and their souls. Let them follow you into the breach as recklessly as the warriors of the March once followed him into Nan Elmoth.”

“I am not he,” I sighed and shook my head. “I cannot be what he was.”

“There are times when I see him in you, Macalaurë.” She came close and kissed my cheeks one after the other. “The white fire burns in you, or perhaps it is the flame of your father’s legacy. Our people shall follow you.”

“Into the chasm?” 

“And beyond, Macalaurë. And beyond. There is always a safe haven after the gap of a chasm.”

“You would have done better to-” I cut myself off shakily.

“Yes, if I had stayed clear of your family, I would have been in a more enviable position,” she smiled wryly. “Perhaps cohabitation with you brought to me your traits of stubbornness and being lured by danger.”

 

Mithlond,  
1st Age.

 

I found him struggling with an easel and paintbrush, furiously working on a canvas to depict in some strange symbolism the simple sunset before him. Exasperated, I walked over to him and nudged him.

“Cohabitation seems to have brought art into my blood,” he winked at me before returning to his task.

He failed in his attempt to capture the sunset. But I succeeded in etching the scene into my heart where it would stay confined forever. 

The lazy breeze teasing tendrils of hair, the smudge of paint on a sunkissed cheek, the flat humming of one of my melodies emanating from deep within his throat, the gold-flecked gaze that flicked back and forth from canvas to the horizon and above all, the easy elegance with which his body had leaned into mine when I approached him from behind with an intent to end his fruitless task. 

“The music of Ainur is vast and beautiful.” He turned to face me, letting the easel drop to the ground. “I would never master it even if I had eternity. But the music you compose is equally beautiful and yet I can understand the theme.”

“You are biased,” I remarked.

“Your music reminds me of the sun melting crimson gold into the sea at the horizon.”

“Then perhaps I should call it The Song of Sunset,” I teased him.

“Poetic, fanciful, perfect.”

* * *


End file.
